


Erebor Pictures Presents...

by LoxleyAndBagell



Series: Screen Sorcery 'verse [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternative Universe- 1950's, American Southern! Bofur Bombur and Bifur, American!Thorin, But The Bone Fiddle got away with it, F/M, I mean it, It Gets Worse, M/M, Not to be taken seriously in the least, Old Hollywood Musicals, Screen Sorcery 'verse, So why the fuck can't I, don't give me that look, this might as well be crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-22
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-06 07:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoxleyAndBagell/pseuds/LoxleyAndBagell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Baggins has lived long enough to learn that life is nothing like it is in the movies, especially his life. But clearly he's not as wise as he previously believed, otherwise he wouldn't have ever agreed to stow away to Hollywood with a pack of loonies intent on taking back their studio with unquestionably the worst and strangest shenanigan of a plot ever conceived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exposition

The Baggins family had a long and glorious tradition of predictability. Though it was hardly a long-winded, ancient bloodline, the generations of family that had been established had behaved very nicely indeed—if there was conflict, they had nothing to do with causing it. If there was a war, the Baggins casualties were few, and if a boy was sent away, they were never heroes and were almost always in the safest positions you could hope for in a war. 

Belladonna had come from a long established line of exotic troublemakers—English by birth, her father’s family lived on close terms to the oldest clans in Scotland, many of them rebels in the wars for independence from England. Belladonna’s mother had royal Hungarian ancestors who had been overthrown and banished for their radical, anarchic ideologies, had fled to the north of Italy, and had been patrons of Verdi and rebelled against Italian Unification, which resulted in their fleeing to England.

The Bagginses looked at their Took in-laws as Disreputable, but called them Adventurous. The Tooks, meanwhile, called the Bagginses Respectable but meant Dull, but both families could look past their differences to admire and raise the newest, youngest member of their households.

William Figaro London Took-Baggins, Little Billy-Boy, soon shortened to Bilbo, was born two years before the Great War, and soon filled Bag End (Bungo’s wedding present to Belladonna, an old house they had motored past once during their courtship, a ways outside of the city, that she had insisted on sneaking inside and see if there were ghosts to visit; he enlisted the help of the Baggins family and a great number of the Tooks and their money on restoring the place) with all the muddy footprints, pollywogs, and cuts and scratches you could expect from a young child and then some.

One day, though, a friend of Belladonna’s father volunteered to take the “wee hurricane” to the Moving Pictures, and all were astonished to learn that the boy was a regular statue in the presence of a silver screen. The family adopted this method for when their son got into particularly rambunctious moods, and Bungo would tease his boy in later years that Bilbo had been planning his own performances for when he was in the pictures.

Bilbo did not see much of his far-off Took relations as he grew up, but what little influence they had was marvelous, much to the Bagginses dismay—off he would vanish into the woods in search of goblin caves and trolls and could tell you exactly how to avoid offending a fairy and survive meeting a giant or orc or any sort of monster and make them your servant just as well as he knew the order of silverware placement. He knew the tales of Robin Hood as well as his Mother Goose, and learnt to fish as well as he could garden, and for a long time there was concern amongst the Bagginses that one day he would speak Gàidhlig as well as the King’s English.

They needn’t had worried, though. As Bilbo grew older and went to school, he soon enough picked up that a short, stout, asthmatic child in the 20th century could not hope to become a Roving Scop or Hollywood actor or both, it was not appropriate to write in clever riddles where answers should go in tests, and that while it was easy to find friends to play Robin Hood with in the copse of trees near Bag End, they would not all believe as fervently as he did in the beasts that undoubtedly roamed there, besides the rabbits and birds, nor would they see their short, stout friend as playing anything other than a Friar Tuck in their games.

And as time passed, he accepted those beliefs as well. A worldwide economic depression tended to have that effect on people. 

He did not continue his schooling, preferring to get a job at the grocery where he may not have been paid monetarily consistently, but more frequently paid in food, which was just as well, if not better. He helped tend his mother’s garden, sold as much of his books as he could, and thanked his lucky stars that both ends of the family had old money that had not been invested in the stock market or all left to banks and were able to help keep them from selling Bag End. He had become, he liked to think, an entirely Respectable Baggins.

He could never entirely get rid of his inherent ‘Took-ishness,’ though. He would sneak into the movies and watch the outlandish comedy films of the Rose Brothers and the other slapstick comedians with the other boys, pilfer a few pulp magazines along with the newspapers, scribbled the occasional fairy tale into his diary, and dutifully turn on the radio every week to hear the American radio shows that the old Baggins relations decried as ‘irritatingly escapist.’ 

The grocer had come to like him very much, and gave Bilbo the very small apartment over the store in exchange for extra hours, which gave him a higher pay to send his parents. The tiny attic room never saw any amorous visitors; he was too shy of what they would say of the paper clippings of the flights of aeroplanes, melodramatic covers of detective magazines, and his only technology being the radio by the bed which was covered in a quilt from home with his initials daintily stitched in the corner. 

After the Blitz, with the blessed silence after what felt like hours of dread of dying came the fresh, cold fear of inevitable war.

His asthma served him well when the world went to war for a second time, as well as his baby face, and when he returned from the draft office with a tale of the gruff officer rolling his eyes and telling him to “go home, your mam still needs you,” he was cheered for carrying on the Baggins tradition of Getting Out On The Clean End Of War, and the family promptly locked up Bag End to stay with the Tooks’ friends in Scotland, despite his fears of not having a job when they returned home. Worst of all, no matter how hard he tried he was referred to as “Bilbo.” His mother even got back in the habit, and his father was soon to follow. 

Many of these friends lived in the most beautiful, remote places in Scotland that were all exactly an hour drive away from the nearest movie house, where they played American films exactly four months after they premiered everywhere else. It was a tiny theatre that seated a little under forty, and Bilbo would get away from his ever-present, ever-extending family by taking his father with him to watch the noir mysteries starring William Owen, or his mother to the musicals with Dylan Fenton.

Having invested their “old” money in “safe” enterprises, especially oil, the Tooks and their friends who hosted them did not see much stock in Bilbo, their "baby" and a guest, seeking out a job during the stay. But one of his many honorary “Uncles” (a Thane, or something of the sort) had connections to a small fiction magazine, and helped Bilbo send in a few submissions after finding some of Bilbo’s writing. After the initial humiliation of having his casual scribblings discovered and sent away to be published only as a favour, Bilbo was pleased to find that his first few were rejected with some honest critique attached. He never wrote anything truly spectacular, but he earned some money from the arrangements.

Their stay in Scotland lasted four years, and saw the end of Belladonna Took-Baggins. Her husband wasted away and followed her a month later, leaving their son the master of Bag End. 

When it was safe to go back to London, he had gotten used to being called his childish moniker again, had a surprisingly considerable inheritance, and a large, empty house that was probably as dusty as it had been when his parents had first seen it. He found that his old employer, the grocer, had passed as well, leaving him a small monetary inheritance, having joked about “finally paying the boy properly,” and offered him partial ownership of the shop with his widow, seeing the pair had been childless. 

The good woman did not live to see V.E Day, leaving Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, the grocer, to parade with London in the street with no one to celebrate with once he came home.

Life went on, and there were plenty of young men looking for work, and plenty came through Mr. Baggins’ shop to work for a spell before bigger and better things came their way, and when they did he congratulated them and wished them luck. Often they had it, sometimes they didn’t. He went to many more funerals, and inherited more money that he wished came under happier circumstances. He attended just as many weddings, though, and soon after those, a fair share of Christenings. He volunteered Bag End for many of these celebrations and other reunions, and its usually-empty halls saw its fair share of guests (although too often it was for far too short a time, he thought). He would still write from time to time, but never send anything off to be published, preferring to send the little whimsies to his young cousins.

He couldn’t find as much time as he once had to go to the cinema, what with the shop, but he still went to the new thrillers and the occasional musical, wondering periodically what moments would make old Bungo jump, or what songs Belladonna would have hummed until her husband and son never wanted to hear it again for the rest of their lives.

One fine April day in 1952 while Bag End was hosting for Easter reunion, Bilbo sat on the porch watching the little ones, especially young Frederick Morris Baggins, Drogo and Primula’s little “Frodo,” as he toddled around and looked under bushes for a rabbit to catch, when he suddenly felt very old, and nearly laughed at the sudden wave of empathy with the old departed Tooks and Baggins who had ruffled “Billy-boy’s” hair until he was in his thirties. And when the last of his guests were seen safely off, he sat down and took some notes to have ready for when he saw the lawyer to make the official arrangements for his will.

A week passed, during which he had called the lawyer and made an appointment for the coming Monday. He began a new story to mail to Frodo, something to do with dragons, he had promised; he had also hired a new boy, a spotty-faced teenager who would probably quit after a month to get some experience to put on an application for a better job, and had bought himself some new pipe tobacco, which he put in his pipe that Sunday, the day before his appointment. He settled himself into the chair on the porch which he had sat upon when he had watched little Frodo and closed his eyes to savor the memories with the smoke, and opened them, blinking in confusion at the sight of a tall grey spectre standing quizzically at the foot of the porch steps.

“Good Morning!”


	2. Oh What a Beautiful Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Baggins has lived long enough to learn that life is nothing like it is in the movies, especially his life. But clearly he's not as wise as he previously believed, otherwise he wouldn't have ever agreed to stow away to Hollywood with a pack of loonies intent on taking back their studio with unquestionably the worst and strangest shenanigan of a plot ever conceived.

Bilbo was wondering if he should repeat himself, seeing how the spectre did not respond straight away. Bilbo remembered Belladonna’s descriptions of spirits, and this fellow certainly seemed to fit the bill—tall and gaunt, with all colour seemingly washed out to a pallid gleam, from his sallow skin and silvery bushy brows and beard to his ashy grey tweed suit and cap. Even his pale birch cane, topped with a silver knob, seemed to glow eerily. He didn’t stare blankly at Bilbo, though—it was a piercing, owlish look that was oddly familiar, but from where, Bilbo couldn’t quite place a finger…

 “What do you mean?” he suddenly said, startling Bilbo with his surprisingly gruff voice. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I wish it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”

 Bilbo raised an eyebrow. He’d not expected to be answered with a riddle. “All of them at once,” he replied briskly. The spectre nodded approvingly, the corner of his mouth turning up in a suppressed smile.

 As fond as Bilbo was of visitors, he generally liked to know he was about to be visited beforehand, and at least have the name of who would be visiting. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked, as politely as he knew. Perhaps the fellow was lost; a neighbor’s friend or relation, that would explain why he looked so familiar.

“I do believe so,” replied the ghostly fellow. “I am looking for someone to share an adventure I am arranging,” he said, looking at Bilbo expectantly.

 Bilbo laughed lightly, settling back in his chair. “Well, sir, you’ve come to quite the wrong neighborhood for that sort of thing. Not too keen on adventures, us lot—unless we were promised to be home in time for dinner. But you’ve piqued my curiosity. Whatever do you mean, ‘adventure’?”

 The old fellow settled his weight on his staff. “I mean just what I said. An Adventure. An Escapade. A Dramatic To-Do. You know, like in the movies,” he concluded, smiling as if Bilbo should catch on to some private joke. When Bilbo only tilted his head in confusion, the grey man sighed. “Goodness, I knew you’d grown up, but if I’m the only one who remembers that particular detail of your childhood, I feel quite decrepit indeed, Bilbo Baggins.”           

Bilbo startled at that, nearly dropping his pipe. As far as he knew, Bilbo was a name exclusively reserved for family. To everyone else, he was Mr. Baggins, or William. “Good heavens. How do you…?

 “You do know my name, although you’ve forgotten that I belong to it,” said the old fellow reassuringly. “I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me!”

 At that, Bilbo was suddenly quiet. Then he calmly lit his pipe again, saying, “Mother said you were taller."

 The old fellow, Gandalf’s, eyebrows shot up. The two men stared each other down before Gandalf sputtered in laughter, Bilbo soon joining before standing and descending the porch steps to shake his visitor’s hand (not mentioning his surprise that he was indeed taller than anyone Bilbo had ever met).

“You’ll have to pardon me,” said Bilbo. “My Grandfather always spoke of you, and always kept pictures of you hanging about, but…”

“…But those were all from before I was so grey,” he interrupted, chuckling. “And the last time I saw you, you were half your height and couldn’t be paid enough to sit still. I half thought, before looking for you, you’d not be home.”

“Why, where else would I be?”

Gandalf’s smile took on something wistful. “I recall some ambition or other about California…?”

Something in the way he said that made something in Bilbo, for a split second, want to hunch over in shame. He brushed it off, suddenly eager to change the subject. “Well, I was quite little, then. Won’t you come in? Have some tea with me, or coffee if you prefer…”

“Tea would be just fine.”

 Gandalf followed Bilbo inside the door, bending his head to fit through. “I’ll have you know it wasn’t so long ago,” he chided lightly. “Some thirty years ago, I do believe. But a mere blink to any wise man…”

“I’ll just put the kettle on,” Bilbo interrupted, politely as he knew. “I’ll bring the tea out to the sitting room; it’s…”

“Yes, yes, I recall,” Gandalf assured him, making a shooing gesture.

Bilbo popped off to the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to escape his guest’s unspoken judgment of him. As the kettle sang and he found some biscuits, he called out to his guest in the parlor, hoping to take Gandalf’s mind off of whatever disappointment he had in Bilbo. “In all the stories I’ve heard of you, I don’t remember you ever once coming to Bag End.”

“I did,” he called back. “But long ago, before you were born. I was quite young myself, at the time. Your mother did so love this house…”

“She really did,” Bilbo agreed softly. His had mother claimed that she was leaving with no regrets, but he had always suspected she would have preferred to have passed under this particular roof.

The kettle sang, breaking him from his reverie. As he steeped the pot of black tea and cut a lemon, he called out again. “I hope this isn’t too rude, but why did you not come back this way?”

“My travels never brought me back this way. Up north was where most of my business took me, and for quite a long time.”

Bilbo chuckled. “Probably best for all those fireworks.”

He heard a shocked bark of a laugh in response. “You don’t remember me straight off, but you remember those?”

“I remembered your face! Just didn’t expect to see it in person!” He assured his guest as he arranged the tea tray. “I remember what some of them were like; the flowery shaped ones, mostly. Primarily the loud noises.”

He came out bearing the tray to the sitting room, expecting to see his guest already there. When he saw the room empty, he called out curiously. Gandalf quickly joined him, apologizing and surreptitiously pulling his hand from his breast pocket as he came in.

Bilbo sat and served the tea and asked, “If you don’t mind my asking, what brings you back hereabouts, after all these years? Does your business finally bring you back, or is it finished?”

Gandalf shook his head. “Neither, technically. I’ve gotten some new business, and it brings me here.”

“This whole ‘adventure’ business, is it?”

“Exactly.”

Bilbo cradled his cup in his hands, and settled back in his chair. “Like I said, I’m afraid I can’t go about recommending any neighbors for any dangerous activities. They wouldn’t be too interested, and I like them a little too well.”

Gandalf chuckled. “Well, best take the blow for your neighbors and spare them the discomfort.”

This time, Bilbo couldn’t quite bring himself to laugh along. “I get the uncomfortable feeling you’re…”

“…Serious? Yes. Very much so.”

Bilbo set his cup down slowly before speaking. “Now, I beg your pardon…”

“And you shall have it, and I shall go so far as to include you in this enterprise.”

“Now just a minute!” Bilbo’s nerves wound tighter and tighter with each word. “You’ve got to explain a little, first!”

“Oh, Bilbo, have some faith in me,” his guest soothed. “I’m not _kidnapping_ you. You’ll hear all about it at the meeting. Everyone involved will be present, you’ll get all the information could ever want.”

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably in his chair; it seemed the Baggins and Took in him were switching behaviours, trying to comply with each other. The Baggins was loudly demanding that this virtual stranger, no matter how good a friend of the family, be given the boot and told to take his talk of ‘adventures’ with him straight to the devil, whilst the Took told him to mind his manners and that real gentlemen don’t pass judgment until they’ve seen all sides of the argument.

“Gandalf, when exactly is this meeting?”

“Tomorrow, ‘round afternoon tea.”

Bilbo exhaled with warring relief and disappointment. “Well, that settles it. You’ll have to find another man. I’ve got an appointment with the lawyer tomorrow at that time.”

Gandalf nearly spat out his tea. “Gracious, Bilbo Baggins! I was worried you had been keeping out of trouble all this time!”

Bilbo only laughed at that. “Oh no! No trouble at all! If that was your ambition for me, I’m afraid you’ll be quite disappointed in me. It’s about my will.”

Gandalf didn’t look soothed in the least. “My dear Bilbo, I had no idea… why, you look the very picture of health. But if there’s anything I can do to help…”

“Excuse me?”

“I hope it’s not terribly rude of me, but you’ve worried me quite seriously—how much longer do you have?”

“Longer? Gandalf, I don’t… Oh no! No no no! I’m not _dying,_ ” he insisted. “I just felt it was time to start thinking about that sort of thing.”

Bilbo wasn’t sure if he ought to be proud of gob smacking the old fellow, or terribly nervous. When Gandalf found his voice again, he spoke very evenly. “Bilbo Baggins. How old do you suppose I am?”

Bilbo hated questions like that. He resorted to a poor joke. “You’re clearly a babe in arms.”

Gandalf was not amused. “I’m twenty-five years your senior, Billy-boy. And I’ve never once given thought to a will and testament of any kind.”

He hoisted himself up and out of his chair. “If I am a ‘babe in arms,’ then you must be barely hatched. Barely hatched, and already talking of a will,” he sighed, and Bilbo felt like a child being scolded.

Gandalf only shook his head and said, “If you don’t mind, I shall just see myself out.”

Bilbo shrugged, feeling it would be politer than grumbling, “how can I stop you,” as he would have liked to.

He saw Gandalf to the door and shook his hand. “If ever you need anything in my power to provide, come to Bag End. I don’t mind company.”

Surprisingly, it was that statement that made Gandalf finally smile again. “Excellent to hear. I shall see you soon, Bilbo.”

When the door was shut, Bilbo went to clean up the tea-things, but stopped in front of his study door. Odd, he didn’t remember leaving it open…

Everything seemed to be in order within, some papers had fallen to the ground, which was only expected as he had left the window open, and there was a breeze. But the notebook with Frodo’s story was gone, and had not been blown to the floor.

Had he tucked the small book into his pocket? No, no, not there… he must have carried it to the kitchen; he’d scribbled some in there over breakfast…

Had he been less focused on his hunt, he may have heard the small scratches on his beautiful green door. 

*** 

The next day, around teatime, he put on his tie and took out the good tea set for the lawyer. He had been promised that a Mr. Goodchild would be arriving, and that this Mr. Goodchild had some very specific health demands, so he had spent most of the day baking a beautiful seed cake that he remembered having at tea with his family’s friends up north, that went wonderfully with this chestnut tea he had taken from the grocery.

There was the ring at the bell. “Oh dear,” he muttered, taking a last minute to pause in front of the mirror and fix his crooked tie. He put on a professional face today, going so far as to wear shoes as well as a tie and trying to push back his curls away from his baby face. He took one last look in the mirror, trying to convince himself that he didn’t look like a lad in his first suit, pretending to be grown-up, that he didn’t look _barely hatched…_

He frowned at the memory of Gandalf’s words, and straightened his shoulders. “Well, better safe than sorry,” he muttered, opening the door. “Come in, I hope you don’t mind seed cake…”

Oh.

Bilbo had spoken to Mr. Goodchild several times over the phone. He had a reedy, lisping voice, had a habit of stuttering, and was startlingly polite. He seemed like the fellow to not even breathe without asking “if, ah, that’s quite acceptable?”

This fellow at the door looked like the sort even the King would ask permission from for fear of being dropkicked.

 “Sounds grand,” he rumbled in a voice that sounded like boulders dropping. “Dulin, at your service,” he added, taking off his hat with the hand that wasn’t holding his suitcase and bobbing his bald head in a slight, mechanically polite bow.

Taken aback, Bilbo stuttered, “B—er, William Baggins, at yours.”

That seemed to be the correct answer to the giant’s unasked question, as he proceeded to make his way in, muscling past Bilbo without even touching him. “Seed cake, you say?” he asked, setting his olive-green fedora and short green tweed coat on the coat-rack, and dropping his suitcase next to the door. “Got brandy to go with it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking that there'd need to be the metric shit-ton of re-naming for this AU, but after some research, it seems that a lot of the character's original names do exist outside of Tolkien's writing. So there goes a load off of my shoulders.
> 
> Now, I realized that some of my math from the previous chapter was... a tad wonky. I've mistakingly made Bilbo younger than he's meant to be by rather a goodly amount. Whoops.
> 
> Still, in The Hobbit, Bilbo's not meant to be so very old, in his Golden Years, as a matter of fact. It seems to be generally agreed among the Tolkien fandom (or my sources, anyway) that a Hobbit's lifespan is generally 100 years. Now, when the books were written, that must have been quite outrageous. Even today, when people aging close to or living exactly to 100 years is still surprising, 50 years old is quite a reasonable time to be considering a will, and according to most societies, the 30's and 40's are considered your "golden years," and a bit young to be thinking of a will.
> 
> So, this Bilbo, in making up his will at his relatively young age, is doing something rather unusual. But it's that sort of self-importance and sense of permanence that Tolkien's little hobbit starts off with.
> 
> And if that does nothing for you, remember: Peter Jackson's played with timelines, too. And he made money from it. I'm not.
> 
> And holy shit, Gandalf's a real name. I will never get over that.
> 
> Chapter title from the musical "Oklahoma!" I don't own Rogers and Hammerstein.


	3. Wilkommen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Baggins has lived long enough to learn that life is nothing like it is in the movies, especially his life. But clearly he's not as wise as he previously believed, otherwise he wouldn't have ever agreed to stow away to Hollywood with a pack of loonies intent on taking back their studio with unquestionably the worst and strangest shenanigan of a plot ever conceived.

Bilbo considered voicing his opinion on drinking at this relatively early hour, but something told him that this Mr. Dulin character would not be too interested in his opinion on the subject.

At the moment, the behemoth was eying the kitchen, cutting a piece of cake with a knife Bilbo knew he didn’t own. Bilbo quickly took down a plate for him, and cautiously mentioned, “it’s a chestnut tea brewing, there.”

He nodded approvingly. “Good stuff, chestnut.” He held up his knife, and added very matter-of-factly, “it’s a chestnut handle on this.”

Bilbo tried to find an appropriately appeasing and safe adjective, when he was saved by the bell ringing once again. 

“Excuse me,” he exhaled, hoping he didn’t sound half as relieved as he felt. He quickly scuttled away to the door, hoping that Mr. Goodchild’s legal expertise could save him from this very uncomfortable predicament. 

“So you have got here at last!” he said as he opened the door, but was startled by the sight of a small old woman, with startlingly white hair falling from underneath her red cap. She smiled sweetly at him, extending the hand that wasn’t holding her carpet- bag. 

“Blejan,” she said, bobbing her head, “at your service.”

“G-good day,” he managed, shaking her hand, unsure of how to kindly ask a little old woman just what the devil she is doing at your house, and on her way out could she take the big frightening fellow with the knife away. 

She only glanced around at the garden appraisingly, before saying, “Yes. Yes it is.” She faced him again and pulled on his hand, hoisting herself into the house. “Although I do think it may rain later.

“Am I late?” she asked, depositing her carpetbag next to Mr. Dulin’s suitcase.

Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that comment. “Late for what?”

He didn’t get his answer, as something over his shoulder caught her attention.

“Dulin!” she scolded. “Get your hand out of there!”

Horrified, Bilbo turned his head quickly. His first guest had one massive hand sticking into the biscuit jar, and had a biscuit sticking out of his mouth. It was the exact same position Bilbo had caught Frodo in earlier last week, and Bilbo was too surprised to inquire for the details he knew he was sorely missing.

“Oh, Dulin, you idiotic boy!” she cried as she pulled off her coat and hat. “Would you mind?” she asked Bilbo, handing them to him. Without waiting for an answer, she thrust them into his arm, and marched to the kitchen. “Do I need to butter your hand?” she chided.

Bilbo watched bemusedly as the scene—the wee crone scolding the giant while helping him free himself from a biscuit jar, and when he was free, she laughed and patted his grizzled cheek. 

“Sister-dear,” he rumbled, “you’re shorter and wider than last we met.”

“Wider, not shorter,” she chided, “and sharp enough for both of us.”

Dulin smiled in response, and took her arms. She reciprocated the gesture, and the pair suddenly and violently brought their brows together, and Bilbo swore he heard a hollow ‘thud’. They didn’t seem too dazed afterwards and smiled at one another as if nothing had happened. 

“There’s seed cake if you want any,” Dulin rumbled. “Having a devil of a time finding the brandy, though.”

“Just as well,” she assured him. “Too bloody early for that.”

Bilbo decided he quite liked her.

“Give it another half an hour, then go ahead.”

Oh dear.

“Besides, I’ve already eaten. But I could stand a small bite. Maybe some cheese…” she wondered, opening the icebox. 

Bilbo was growing quite concerned, and decided to speak up. “Now, I don’t mean to be rude, but… are you quite sure you’ve got the right house?”

“Gracious,” she muttered, taking out the bleu cheese he’d been saving for supper. “It’s gone blue…”

Undeterred, Bilbo strove on. “It’s just, you see, I don’t know either of you at all, and I had to speak my mind.” He quickly added, “I’m sorry.”

They turned to look at him, Dulin’s expression worryingly unreadable, and Blejan smiling serenely. “Apology accepted,” she said, before going right back to the icebox.

The bell rang once more, quite violently, and Bilbo got a sinking feeling in his stomach. Still blindly hoping for Mr. Goodchild this time, he opened the door once more. 

Neither of them were Mr. Goodchild. 

They appeared to be two young men—two boys, really. One hadn’t a trace of facial hair on him and a grey fedora that clashed quite horribly with his over-large tweed coat; the other, despite having a weak growth of facial hair and broader shoulders and a well-fitting trench coat, seemed younger than his bare-faced companion, partially due to the un-groomed mess of dark hair under his flat cap, mostly because of the intense solemnity of his expression that only the young sport when they want to be taken seriously. The other, however, had a serene, almost amused, expression.

“Phile,” said the bare-face.

“And Kelley,” said the darker one. 

“At your service,” they said in unison, doffing their hats and bowing exaggeratedly. Bilbo nearly had a heart attack when Phile’s fedora came off, and thick gold hair tumbled past… well, her shoulders. 

When they stood again, they smiled smugly at his stunned expression, clearly pleased at the toll their little presentation took on Bilbo’s health.

“You must be Mr. Boggins!” said Kelley. Phile gave him a sideways look, one that Bilbo recognized as similar to the ones he gave young employees who asked what kind of tree grew peanuts. 

Bilbo had no time to be amused at that, nor had he the desire to encourage more strangers to come to his door. “Nope! Wrong house! You can’t come in!” he said quickly, beginning to close the door.

Kelley’s hand caught the door, and adopted a look Bilbo had often associated with confused puppies. He pulled the door open again, and Phile looked over his shoulder. 

“D’you mean it’s been cancelled?” Kelley asked, clearly dismayed. 

“Nobody told us,” Phile added, equal parts dismayed and disgruntled. 

“’Cancelled’?” Bilbo nearly wailed. “Nothing’s been cancelled!” 

There’s nothing to cancel! He wanted to add, but Kelley interrupted; “That’s a relief,” the boy said, his expression almost demonically ecstatic, enthusiastically pushing past Bilbo and over the threshold, dropping his bag next to the other’s. Bilbo had never seen anyone take off a coat or hat that quickly, and was surprised that nothing tore. He dropped them on his bag and made his way to the kitchen where the other guests were. 

Phile sashayed in soon after him, and gave Bilbo a “What can you do?” look as she gathered up Kelley’s coat and hat. She then set about setting the boy’s cap on the third hat hook, and set her own fedora over it. She then put her own tweed coat on the hook below the hats, and hung Kelley’s trench coat over it. She gave Bilbo a conspiratorial wink, then practically strutted to join her brother. 

The pair of them were greeted in the kitchen, Dulin throwing an arm around Kelley and pulling him towards the dining room. “You kids can help us set out there; find some more chairs for the others.”

“’Others’?!” Cried Bilbo.

The bell rang once more, louder than before.

He groaned, knowing that the chances of Mr. Goodchild being the one to ring the doorbell were growing exponentially lower, but still clung to the vain hope that this time, this time…

“HOPA!” cheered the crowd behind his door. The same cry came from the four in Bilbo’s kitchen, and Bilbo felt his heart drop a little further every time a person came through the door, dropping a suitcase and hanging up a hat and coat, and giving him a peculiar name and shaking his hand, declaring to be ‘at your service’—Norbert-call-me-Nori, and his brothers Old-Dori-Haha-I-mean-Theodore, and Little-Orville, then Owen, then Gwilym, then the trio of Southern Americans Beauregard-Jackson-Hannibal-Rosenbaum-but-Beau-to-you, his brother Robert-Pickett-Achilles-we-call-him-Bobby, and their esteemed cousin Barnaby-Burnside-Pyrrhus-Rosenbaum-he-prefers-to-be-called-Biff-if-you-don’t-mind. 

All these… persons, after effectively pumping Bilbo’s arm off made their way to the kitchen, where the earlier arrivals greeted them with a huge cheer, and more arms were pumped, and hearty embraces were exchanged. At the end of the enthusiastic line, Bilbo felt a familiar hand shake his.

“Hello again, Bilbo.”

Bilbo looked up at Gandalf, willing all his ire to show itself. He was pleased to see Gandalf’s serene, cheeky little smile take on the chill of fear.

“Gandalf. You had better have a bloody good explanation for this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be very straightforward with you now-- I was very excited for this chapter, if only because gender-bends finally make their appearance. If they are disagreeable to you, I shall direct you to the tags. 
> 
> See that there? I warned you. I warned you long ago. You cannot tell me I brought this upon you without notice. You got yourself into this mess. 
> 
> Why those guys, you wonder? Well, I tell you why-- I wanted gender-bends in this fic, and those guys got the luck of the draw. But I'm glad they did. It will be interesting to see where it goes, especially when one considers Dean's little comment about his beliefs that 'tough' guys would be Fili's only fans. 
> 
> To which the audience said "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHAHHAAAAAA."
> 
> So the southern blokes with the strangely long names will be the "Ur" boys, Bofur and Bombur and Bifur. Why would I do that, you ask? I tell you why: long drawn out names tickle my funny bone. But no fear; soon enough they will be referred to by their Tolkien names. That will be the case with most, if not all, of the characters here. I will make a way. 
> 
> To those who protest the use of nationality-bending, I point out the summary. It's explicitly mentioned "Hollywood," and I am referring to that same infamous area in California. I promise to justify it in later chapters, and I did so want to make everyone from the UK, but then I realised that, realistically, I'd need some characters from the states.
> 
> If this concept is offensive to anyone, I suggest you back out now. The "Ur" boys aren't the only American-ized ones. I know that Thorin will be as well, and there will be others. 
> 
> The chapter title is from the Kander and Ebb musical, 'Cabaret.' I do not own the show, the song, the book, or any productions of it.


	4. Sweet Georgia Brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Baggins has lived long enough to learn that life is nothing like it is in the movies, especially his life. But clearly he's not as wise as he previously believed, otherwise he wouldn't have ever agreed to stow away to Hollywood with a pack of loonies intent on taking back their studio with unquestionably the worst and strangest shenanigan of a plot ever conceived.

“Ah, Bilbo. This is that informational meeting I told you about!” Said Gandalf.

“But whatever are they doing in my house?” Growled Bilbo. “Mr. Goodchild will be here any moment, I told you I was busy…”

“I know, dear Bilbo,” Gandalf soothed. “You said you would be busy, and couldn’t come to the meeting; so, we’ve brought the meeting to you.”

Bilbo was not amused. “Gandalf, what am I to tell the lawyer when he arrives to find my house full of strangers?”

If Gandalf was going to respond, a tap on his shoulder cut him off. Both of them turned to see the fellow introduced as “Old-Dori-Haha-I-Mean-Theodore” daintily holding a tea tray with a teapot and a few cups.

“Excuse me,” he said primly, “Mr. Gandalf, can I tempt you with a cup of chamomile tea?”

“Oh, no thank you, Dori,” said Gandalf. “I think I would prefer a glass of red wine. Mr. Baggins’ cellar door is just to the left of the pantry door.”

Bilbo groaned. First his icebox was in danger, now it was his liquor.

He turned to reprimand Gandalf, but the sly bastard was already gone helping heft extra chairs to the dining room, carrying on a conversation with the fellow called ‘Biff’ in a heavy language Bilbo couldn’t place straightaway. Bilbo grumbled, supposing all he could do at the moment was find the table ends to make extra room.

***

Edmund Goodchild was most perplexed. Mr. Baggins had given quite explicit directions to his home, yet he felt quite lost, indeed.

He had felt quite confident when he had reached the suburbs; he had not traveled to this particular area, and had never even heard of Bagshot Row until now, yet the neighborhood reminded him very much of his own—quiet, respectable, with a healthy population of both the Kindly Elderly and the Well-Off families with young children, all growing in abundant gardens.

He’d been so at ease in such familiar territory, he had felt bold enough to roll down his window and slow in front of a particularly lost- looking gentleman on Hill Street.

“Ah, excuse me, can I help you?”

The tall fellow almost didn’t turn to look at him, until he called again to get his attention.

“Oh. Yeah,” he had responded, startling Mr. Goodchild; he had not heard an American accent since the war. “I’m looking to get to Bagshot Row. I think I got turned around two blocks back.”

Still giddy with confidence, he decided to play Human Map. “Ah. You’re not too bad off; if you go right around Park Street, you’ll loop right back.”

Instead of thanking him, the American scowled, perplexed. “No, that can’t be right,” he argued. “I was told to go left from Hill Street, and would come right up on Bagshot Row. Park Street just takes you straight to Smial.”

Mr. Goodchild’s smile faded lightly. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. And Bagshot Row is just down this way further, yeah?”

Flustered, Mr. Goodchild had nodded in agreement. Then the American had thanked him gruffly and continued on his way.

Since then, Mr. Goodchild had been agonizing over his directions. He had never heard of Smial. Had Mr. Baggins mentioned it? He wished he had kept the notes he had taken with directions; it would have made things so much simpler…

***

Bilbo had never seen such table manners, if they could be called that. Phile was playing the strangest hostess he’d ever seen, making Long Island Iced Teas and serving them in the good china; the Southerner, Beau, was tossing hard-boiled eggs to his whale of a brother, Bobby, who caught them expertly in his mouth to great cheers; at one point, there was a belching contest that “Little Orville” won hands down.

His icebox wasn’t any better off than his cellar, neither was his pantry. All his cheeses, from his good bleu to his block of cheddar, were devoured with his new loaf of wheat bread, along with all the jam he had ever owned; his fruits and new head of lettuce had been transformed into a salad; they had even found his mincemeat pie he had left to cool on a shelf so high even he couldn’t see it (thank goodness they didn’t come across the apple pie he had left on the same shelf… oh who was he kidding. They probably decided to spare it. Apples probably tasted off with Long Island Iced Teas or something).

Bilbo could only watch, astonished, feeling quite like Alice at the mad tea party.

He was very perplexed as to why his cupboard had to be sacrificed, when many of them had brought along brown paper grocery bags that were lined up along his kitchen table. He considered peeking inside, but all that he saw were lemons, more smaller paper bags, an onion head, bottles, little boxes of spices, all sorts of things that couldn’t be eaten straightaway. Wondering if there was even a crumb left in his icebox, he opened it up, and immediately threw the door closed at the sight of half a dozen sole fish staring back at him.

“Confound and bebother these…these…”

“Oh, they’re quite the merry gathering,” came Gandalf’s placating rumble.

Bilbo whirled on him. “Oh, they’re as merry as old Robin Hood’s men, all right. Robbing the rich to feed the poor.”

Gandalf smiled approvingly before Bilbo continued. “They also do a fine job of playing the Poor, too, for that matter. I’ve played many a game of Robin Hood in my day, Gandalf, but never have I found myself in the position of playing Prince John, being robbed every which way I look.”

Gandalf gave him a curious look. “You get quite convoluted when you’re upset, don’t you?”

“Don’t detract me,” growled Bilbo. “Gandalf, I haven’t the faintest idea as to who these people are, what they are here for, or for how long. I told you, I had a very important meeting today, and as far as I know, still do. What is truly confounding to me, old fellow, is not what your intentions were, or are; you’re all too keen on providing me with the midlife crisis I was avoiding. No, what I want to know is why the bloody hell you thought it was a good idea to bring all these gluttonous strangers in my home?”

Once again, Gandalf did not get a chance to answer. As if on cue, Orville coughed quietly behind Bilbo.

“Excuse me,” he said meekly, “I’m sorry to interrupt, but what should I do with my plate?”

“Here you go, Ori, give it to me,” said Phile from over his shoulder, startling him. She had just come out of the living room, where she had turned on the record player while some of the other ‘guests’ had started clearing up the table. Daintily, she reached over to pluck the plate from his hands, and Orville stepped to the side.

“Kelley!” She bellowed. When the boy turned around, she planted her feet, and in a split second he responded in a like matter, his face becoming a blank with concentration. With that, she threw him the plate like a Frisbee.

Bilbo shrieked, even when Kelley caught it. He made the mistake of taking a calming breath when he saw it was secure in Kelley’s grasp, for the boy immediately turned to the kitchen, yelling out “HUP!”

“HUP!” replied the company within, and Bilbo choked on his breath when the plate was thrown once again.

***

Mr. Goodchild had gotten directions from a Mr. Gamgee who had been walking his Labrador through the park where Mr. Goodchild had parked his car. Apparently, he had been on an appropriate road earlier, and as a matter of fact, if he had stayed on that path, he could have driven straight from the main road to the house; instead, he had gone quite a long ways out of his way.

He ended up taking about two backstreets to get to Bagshot Row, and even now was not sure he was at the right place.

This Mr. Baggins, he had gathered from his phone conversations, was a quiet, private sort of fellow. Not the sort at all to have cars lined up along in front of his house, or to have loud music blaring from within, with plenty of singing along and a few screams and shouts. He’d heard that Baggins owned a grocery, not a speakeasy.

He stared up at the place, standing outside of his car. He knew he was late, but did not think he was that late.

“Oh. You again.”

With a jolt, he turned to see the American from earlier.

“Oh, gracious!” he yelped in surprise, then got a hold of himself. “I’m… I’ve got an appointment at this address, with a Mr. William Baggins, but…”

“’Baggins?’” echoed the American. “No, that can’t be right. This is where my appointment is. We’re discussing… well, travel arrangements.”

“Oh,” he murmured, astonished. What business could Mr. Baggins have with an American? What kind of travel? Where could he be going that required a travel agent at such short notice? Or perhaps he had written down the wrong date for the appointment?

The American broke his train of thought, confirming his doubts; “I think you must have the wrong appointment.”

“I…Yes, I suppose that must be the case, mustn’t it,” he murmured, quite disappointed and frustrated, and a sudden cry from within of “THAT’S WHAT BILBO BAGGINS HATES!” gave him all the encouragement he needed to get in his car and drive off, thoroughly bemused.

***

Bilbo had watched in horror as dining room and kitchen became a vaudeville stage.

“No- that- not my mother’s china! Stop it! Stop this minute!”

“We could,” called Beau as he caught the plate flying by Bilbo’s head, “but then we’d break it all, you see.”

Bilbo sputtered in anger and fear for the heirlooms, which were being tossed about through the air, over heads and shoulders in a dizzyingly precise rhythm. He felt Gandalf’s hand on his shoulder again. “Now, now, Bilbo, you haven’t got a thing to worry about from them, they’re professionals…”

“Bilbo?” cried Kelley, nearly missing the tea- cup flying towards him.

Phile reached in front of him and caught the cup. “Watch your rhythm, kid,” she casually reprimanded, tossing it to Biff at the sink. The fellow didn’t even have to look up or turn around, only held up his hand and let the projectile porcelain land in his palm.

When Kelley caught and threw the next piece of china nicely enough for Phile, her eyes narrowed mischievously. “But Kelley’s got a point, Gandalf. Who on earth is this ‘Bilbo’?”

Before he could say a word, Gandalf apologized, “Oh, nothing at all. It’s just one of Mr. Baggins’ nicknames.”

If he had hoped to save Bilbo any dignity, he was sorely mistaken. Phile and Kelley failed to suppress their amusement, the pair of them giggling like hyenas as more china and silverware came flying their way.

The older generation wasn’t much help, either.

“It’s a fine name,” said Theodore. “I think it suits you nicely. You look like a Bilbo.”

“Didn’t we have a rabbit called that at one point?” asked Orville, earning hoots of laughter.

Bilbo wanted to retort at that, but was stopped when Norbert pointed out, “Look, Ori! He even puffs up like the old creature used to!”

It became a joke amongst the company in his kitchen; apparently, alliterative names were funnier than Bilbo had previously believed. Beau went as far as to improvise new lyrics to the song on the record, mostly centered around their host’s many complaints surrounding the maintenance of his tableware, with a loud chorus of “THAT’S what Bilbo Baggins hates!”

The job was done quickly and efficiently, though, with not even a fork bent, and Bilbo was relieved and astonished to see that his kitchen and dining room were cleaner than when they had come in.

The record continued playing after they were done, and Phile grabbed Kelley and the pair of them whirled around the kitchen like mad things to the music, startling Bilbo into silence. He hadn’t seen dancing like that before, except in the movies. But he noticed that Phile had her arm around Kelley’s waist, and was controlling the elaborate twists and spins, while Kelley’s arm was fixed around the girl’s shoulders. He was very impressed, and nearly everyone was applauding them (Orville looked especially spellbound), but old Dulin was watching them with arms crossed over his chest, calling out ‘missed turns’ and ‘lead more with your shoulders, don’t shove him around so.’

When the song concluded, Kelley grabbed Phile ‘round her waist, and dipped her perilously to the ground. He held her there for a few seconds, smiling victoriously.

All of a sudden, there was a knock at the door. Kelley and Phile quickly turned to look, and in his surprise Kelley dropped her to the ground.

Bilbo gasped loudly, and immediately began to search in the icebox for anything left that could be used as a cool compress for her head. He only heard Phile telling him to lay off.

“Now you know, Mr. Bilbo,” she said irritably as Kelley hastily helped her up, “why I lead.”

“It’d take more than that to crack her,” said Dulin to Orville, who was hovering nervously next to Phile. He turned a marvelous shade of red and sheepishly retreated to the living room, muttering about turning off the music.

As for the rest of the guests, they had gone quite serious and silent. Nori was pushing his hair back out of his face self- consciously and Dori adjusting his tie, Beau and Bobby and Biff rolling down their shirtsleeves and tucking shirts back in, Owen and Gwilym murmuring amongst themselves over a small moleskine notebook, Phile re-adjusting hers and Kelley’s hair; the only ones who didn’t seem out of sorts were the large Dulin fellow and Blejan, who only turned a touch graver and began looking back into the paper bags on the table.

At Bilbo’s wondering look, Gandalf only muttered, “He’s here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from a jazz standard from 1925 by Ben Bernie and Maceo Pinkard (music) and Kenneth Casey (lyrics). It's the theme music for the Harlem Globe Trotters (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harlem_Globetrotters)*, which I think is an appropriate parallel for the dish-washing antics of the 'That's What Bilbo Baggins Hates' scene in the Hobbit film. Gandalf's little comment about them being 'professionals' will come up again. Bilbo's just too pissy to be curious about what the deuce that could mean. You would be, too, if the only thing left to eat was a fucking raw squid.
> 
> ...Also, I privately substituted the lyrics to 'SGB' with 'TWBBH' in my head. It... kind of fits? 
> 
> So sue me, it doesn't, but you can 'fan' anything if you try hard enough. 
> 
> Also. Erm. Shit. You can probably guess who the American is.
> 
> *Wikipedia article


	5. Well, Did You Evah?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Baggins has lived long enough to learn that life is nothing like it is in the movies, especially his life. But clearly he's not as wise as he previously believed, otherwise he wouldn't have ever agreed to stow away to Hollywood with a pack of loonies intent on taking back their studio with unquestionably the worst and strangest shenanigan of a plot ever conceived.

Gandalf was the one to open the door. It was another gentleman, not as tall as Gandalf or Dulin, nor was he as built, but there was something to him that seemed to fill the entire entryway just by standing on the threshold.

 

He smiled, but it did not reach his cold blue eyes. “Gandalf,” he said as way of greeting, stepping over the threshold. Bilbo privately despaired upon hearing his voice, mentally mourning _oh no, not another American_.

 

“You said this place would be easy to find,” the new guest groused, setting down his suitcase and removing his hat and coat. “I got lost, twice. If not for that mark on the door…”

           

He trailed off at the sight of Phile’s hat and Kelley’s coat on the hook. The boy and girl stood a little behind the arch leading to the kitchen, partially hidden, eagerly watching the proceedings.

 

“I’ve just come in the door,” the American said, not turning around, but raising his voice, “yet I see my hat and coat’s already been hung up.”

 

Phile and Kelley smiled impishly and stepped out from behind the arch. The American turned his head to them, a fierce scowl on his face, but his eyes bright with humour. “Clearly, someone’s been expecting me.”

 

The scowl quickly melted, and the smile in his eyes bloomed on his face. He held out his arms to the pair eagerly moving to him, hugging them close. “Hey, dopes.”

 

“Hi, Uncle Thorin,” they both greeted, Phile punctuating with a hard kiss to his grizzled cheek.

 

Bilbo had no doubts that it was a very sweet scene, and would have liked to chuckle over it like the rest of the company, but was too fixated by the mention of a mark on his door.

 

“Don’t tell me those old things _fit_ you,” said ‘Uncle Thorin,’ gesturing to the hat and coat on the wall with a twist of his head. “You’re still too little, the pair of you.”

 

“The coat fits me just fine,” Kelley assured him. “And Phile’s head is plenty big enough for your hat.”

 

“Better a big head for brains than broad shoulders to hold a pea head,” she retorted.

 

“Begging your pardon,” cut in Bilbo, “but what do you mean by a mark on the door? There’s nothing there, it was painted just last week!”

 

“Of course there’s a mark,” argued Gwilym. “It’s how we found your place.”

 

“I put it there myself just yesterday,” said Gandalf proudly.

 

Bilbo sputtered angrily, but Gandalf cut him off again. “Mr. Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of this company, Thorin Durin.”

 

Thorin released Phile and Kelley, who took his hat and coat to hang up. He wore a dark blue pinstripe suit underneath the coat, and his hair was as dark as his neatly-trimmed beard, but scattered silver strands shone through. He looked like he ought to be in pictures, Bilbo thought, maybe as a noir detective, or a mob boss.

 

That train of thought was cut off as the icy blue gaze fixed on him, looking him up and down appraisingly, his smile radiating quiet amusement.

 

Well.

 

_That_ look certainly didn’t belong on a detective.

 

“So this is our Mr. Baggins,” said Mr. Durin, and though there was warmth, there was little kindness in his voice. “God, he looks more British than the King.”

 

There were snickers at that, and Bilbo smiled sharply. “Pity. If you’d read your newspapers, you’d know there was a Queen, now.”

 

Mr. Durin raised a thick, dark eyebrow, and though he still smiled, his eyes flashed frost.

 

“So, where were _you_ stationed?” he asked Bilbo, no longer hiding his derision. “Gallipoli? The South Pacific? I mean, I’m pretty good at spotting war heroes, and you’re clearly one, by the look of it.”

 

Bilbo bristled at that. He had been careful to avoid telling the tale of the Enlistment Office Debacle, but that didn’t mean it was hard to guess how he came by the good fortune of avoiding action; even little Frodo had guessed it after an afternoon perusing a family album and innocently declaring that Bilbo had been five longer than anybody on the planet. Bilbo was hard-pressed to find anybody outside the family who congratulated him on such a narrow scrape, but nobody had ever had the cheek to openly mock him for it.

 

“I was in London,” he lied, “running a grocery that fed smart-mouth American soldiers who scared off the locals.”

 

There wasn’t a gasp of horror, but there wasn’t any laughter. Thorin still smiled, even produced a short chuckle, but Bilbo felt every dagger he glared prick at him.

 

“A grocer,” Thorin declared victoriously, backing away. “I knew it. Either that, or a tea biscuit.”

 

Bilbo rolled his eyes, and was very close to viciously critiquing such a weak insult, when Blejan cut in. “Thorin, you’re just mouthy because you’ve not eaten. Come on, we’re just about to start on dinner.”

 

“I hope you saved me something,” he said, looking pointedly at Bobby as they all adjourned to the kitchen. “I know how you vultures eat.”

 

“Well, open the icebox and see what’s there,” Blejan said, shooing him off as she began to rustle about in the pots and pans.

 

“ _Please_ say you saved some eggs,” he groaned, opening the door. “All I’ve prayed for is some Matzah ba—“

 

He was cut off, stunned at what Bilbo could only imagine to be the sole fish. His thoughts were confirmed when the door closed, and Thorin held one of the fish in his hands, asking solemnly, “which one of you bastards iced my cousin Dan?”

 

The company hooted with laughter, and a smile quirked at the corner of Thorin’s mouth until he completely broke and grinned. Bilbo found he was smiling, too, but snapped out of it when Theodore asked where his colander was.

 

Resigning himself for a few more hours of madness, Bilbo rolled up his sleeves and joined them in the kitchen.

 

*** 

 

The sole fish was to be baked with the lemon and spices in filets. Bilbo was mostly needed to direct members of the company to his various kitchen appliances.

 

He saw Bobby standing over one of the fish, holding the filleting knife and looking at it ponderously.

 

“Here, let me—“ Bilbo started, but his offer to help was cut short as, with a single fluid motion, Bobby carved through the fish, laying out as perfect a cut as Bilbo had ever seen. He looked over his shoulder and grinned at Bilbo’s awestruck expression.

 

“You _must_ teach me that,” Bilbo insisted.

 

A sudden tinkling smash interrupted the lesson. Turning his head quickly, Bilbo saw Thorin standing before a shattered glass mixing bowl, the pieces scattered all along the floor, looking like he had just been startled awake. Surprisingly, few others in the kitchen turned to see the commotion; the only other one who had noticed, as far as Bilbo could tell, was Dulin. The large fellow rested a hand on Thorin’s shoulder and nudged him in the direction of the living room. Thorin docilely obeyed, and Bilbo couldn’t help but be reminded of a weary Frodo easily nudged to a nap. That connection shocked all thoughts of scolding the rude American out of him.

 

While the fish baked, Bilbo went about setting the table and doing his damndest not to twist his neck around to peek at his living room to see where Thorin was. Gandalf came out to help him before too long, stopping him from setting out the placemats and silverware again.

 

“Tell me, do you still have those silver candlesticks, Bilbo?”

 

Bilbo snorted. “Gracious, do you want me to lay out the lace tablecloth as well?”

 

Gandalf leant in confidentially. “Bilbo, I only want to save you a little… embarrassment, is all.”

 

“Embarrass _myself?_ ” said Bilbo _sotto voce_ , incredulous. “Are you sure you should be giving this speech to me? Unless you were mysteriously absent during the little vaudeville episode in my kitchen, or that charming encounter betwixt me and that Thorin fellow, you ought to know who should be behaving well enough for the candlesticks and tablecloth.”

 

A sudden snore from the living room cut Bilbo off. In the kitchen, Phile and Kelley softly choked with laughter, only to have Blejan lightly hit them upside their heads.

 

“I don’t think there will be enough energy to do much damage to your tablecloth,” assured Gandalf.

 

Bilbo was not completely convinced, but allowed Gandalf to set up the table as he pleased.

 

Soon, Blejan came out of the kitchen, through the dining room, to the living room, where she leant over Bilbo’s armchair, the one with its back turned to the dining room. Bilbo couldn’t hear what she said, but the chair soon shifted with a lazy creak across the floor as Thorin slowly pushed himself up and off. Blejan led him through the dining room to the kitchen where the others were dishing up.

 

True to Gandalf’s word, all was quiet during supper, which turned out to be quite wonderfully tasty. Granted, Bilbo realised, that was probably because it had been ages since anyone save himself had cooked for him.

 

It was Gwylim who broke the silence. “How is everyone at Blue Mountain?”

 

Thorin smiled mid-swallow. “It’s looking terrific; Dis will do fine without us lot, never worry about that. She’s figured out the new season already— _The Guilty Mother_ and _Much Ado About Nothing_ , and two new plays. She hasn’t decided which ones yet; she thinks a tragedy is in order, having chosen two comedies already, but you lot know how she is about comedy.

 

“But those two she has already,” he said to Phile and Kelley, shaking his fork at them, teasingly. “Both of them sound right up your alley. You sure picked a lousy time to go nobly gallivanting off.”

 

The company snickered, and the pair of them chuckled as well, but there was a certain dread in the way they looked at each other and stared into their drinks that Bilbo couldn’t help but notice. From the way Thorin’s brow creased, he noticed too.

 

Before Thorin could say another word to his niece and nephew, Dulin spoke up.  “And what says your cousin Dan, and the fellas from Iron Hills? Did his telegram come in?”

 

Thorin’s already grey expression became stormy with disappointment. “It did. It said…” his voice trailed off as he dug in his breast pocket for the scrap of paper, and upon finding it, read, “’This one is yours. Sincerely wish you all luck. Dan.’”

 

A hush fell over the company as Thorin stuffed the note back in his pocket, muttering, “ten words. That skinflint.”

 

Thorin’s mood was eclipsing; Bilbo could sense a dark cloud rising over his table, threatening to consume the evening. Yet he starched his spine; he would be damned if he stayed in the dark about this matter for much longer.

 

“If I’m allowed to ask,” he piped up, “what’s ‘all yours’?”

 

 Several members of the company turned and looked very ready to answer, but Gandalf spoke first: “That, Mister Baggins, is hardly a topic for supper conversation,” he kindly joked. “We’ll finish up here, and once the dishes are cleared up, we shall get to the informational portion of this little gathering.”

*** 

 

The ‘informational portion’ was held over dessert, which was the apple pie. Bilbo was getting too tired and used to this abuse of his pantry to properly seethe, but the way Thorin’s eyebrows rose as he took his first bite was enough to soothe Bilbo’s ruffled feathers.

 

“You made this?” he asked, earnestly curious.

 

“Yes, of course,” Bilbo answered, a little confused. Who else would be making him apple pie?

 

“It’s great,” said Thorin, no trace of malice in his voice.

 

“Thanks,” said Bilbo, a little taken aback.

 

If Thorin had a snide comment up his sleeve, he didn’t make use of it, for Gandalf resumed his spot at the table, laying out what appeared to be a floor plan.

 

“Now, to illuminate a few matters for our Mr. Baggins,” he said, smiling in Bilbo’s direction. “This is…”

 

Bilbo took in the floor plan in a glance, astonished—labels reading _Shooting area, Makeup, Hydraulics Trailer…_

“A studio?” he murmured. “What do you want with a studio?”

 

There was a low chuckle around the table.

 

“It’s not just _any_ studio,” snapped Thorin, sullenly stabbing at the pie crust with his fork. “That’s the floor plan to Erebor Pictures.”

 

“And what we want with it,” added Orville, “is to break into it.”

 

Bilbo’s head shot up. They couldn’t be serious; it was all too ridiculous; yet they were all staring back at him, solemn and stone-faced and silent.

 

He snorted on a laugh, hoping to disguise it as a cough, but Orville just _had_ to continue—“you see, we _need_ a burglar!”

 

Bilbo gave up, letting out a giggle. “A _burglar?_ Saints alive! You’ll need a—a bloody Arsene Lupin!”

 

“And, _are_ you?” called Theodore.

 

“What?” Bilbo asked, the humour in this no longer quite so vivid.

 

Owen whistled, impressed. “He thinks he’s _that_ good? This will be quite the show!”

 

Bilbo felt himself sobering quickly. “Now, wait a minute, I’m not a—“

 

“Well, he can brag all he likes until he reads the terms and conditions,” said Blejan briskly, opening her carpet bag and bringing forth a folder from which she drew a folded sheet of paper. She passed the sheet to Thorin who, in turn, carelessly thrust it to Bilbo.

 

Unfolding it, Bilbo suspected it was a contract of sorts, which he supposed was quite polite of them. He meant to glance over it, but the scrawls across the bottom caught his eye. There among the signatures of all at his table was an elaborate impression, one he had seen on film posters in the theatre.

 

_Dylan Fenton._

 

Dylan Fenton. _The_ Dylan Fenton’s signature. The Hollywood triple threat, Dylan Fenton, whom his mother adored.  Dylan Fenton sat at his table, and… and underneath that name was written another in curlicue script, _Blejan Fenton._

 

Blejan Fenton?

 

_Sister-dear, you’re shorter and wider than last we met._

 

No. No, that was preposterous, Dylan Fenton was… well, he had to be smaller, dancers usually were, and- and he didn’t have a beard, and didn’t carry a _knife,_ for goodness’ sake, and... and he was most certainly _not_ the behemoth Dulin!

 

He had to look. Just to make sure.

 

Dylan Fenton was clean shaven, with a full head of dark hair. This Dulin fellow was bald with a beard, but men went bald and grew beards. So what else could there be?

 

The nose. He _did_ have the nose. And the deep-set eyes, but… but…

 

“He got to the signatures, I see,” Norbert snickered.

 

“It’s quite alright,” said Beau kindly. “We aren’t all exactly recognizable after all these years. Why, you’ll be hard pressed to find anybody who still can name a Rose Brothers film.”

 

“At least you’re not bitter,” teased Bobby.

 

“Don’t you have a horn to honk somewhere?” Beau mock-groused.

 

Beau turned to Bilbo, his initially smiling face quickly becoming awash with concern. “Mister Baggins, are you feeling well? You’re as white as a sheet.”

 

Bilbo gulped. “The Rose Brothers?”

 

Beau didn’t look soothed in the least. “Yes, Bifur Bofur and Bombur Rose,” he recited, pointing to Biff, himself, and Bobby. “There were a few films—“

 

“I saw them all,” Bilbo stammered, eyes still wide and lost. “And my mother saw every Dylan Fenton film ever made, I think, and… “ He took a deep breath, loosening his collar. “Is there anybody else famous in this room I should know about?”

 

Beau’s shoulders sagged with relief, nodding understandingly. “Well! Mr. Gwilym Graham there, he made a number of rather excellent noir films, but he wasn’t Gwilym back then, he went and changed it to—“

 

“—William Owens,” Bilbo murmured, finally recognizing the iconic profile with the famous red hair he had seen on so many posters in the cinema; _The Homecoming Waltz, The Erlking, The White Hood…_

 

Beau, _Bofur Rose_ , serenely continued. “Yes, yes, that’s right! And that should take care of the actors. Miss Fenton here, she was head costume mistress at the Studio, oversaw some amazing stuff, hand-built Margaret Jewell’s gown in ‘The Homecoming Waltz…’”

 

“…for which I am eternally grateful,” Gwilym, _William Owens_ added, raising his glass amidst some laughter. Blejan only laughed in kind, raising her glass, teasing, “she had you in mind, dear.”

 

“…And let’s see, that leaves Mr. Durin,” proceeded Bofur blithely. “His family founded the Studio, and he’ll be running it next, if all goes according to plan.”

 

Gandalf’s words came back to Bilbo; _” I only want to save you a little… embarrassment, is all.”_

 

So _this_ was what he meant.

 

He inhaled slowly, willing his knees not to buckle with the knowledge that everybody he had ever wanted to meet when he was a boy was suddenly sitting here in his very dining room, and he had been a rather gruff host to them over the last few hours.

 

He barely heard Bofur Rose’s words; “Well, that may just be all us old-timers. Phile and Kelley, as you know, are Mr. Durin’s niece and nephew. Their mother, his sister, runs the Blue Mountain theatre company in Aldgate. Young Orville works there, and his brothers… I fancy they came along for the ride, it’s all very exciting, stealing back a studio. That leaves the other Mr. Graham, Doctor Owen here, Gwilym’s brother who realized that every good expedition needs a doctor—“

 

Bilbo had to lean against the table a little, under the pretense of holding the contract to the table.  His feet were beginning to burn and itch in the shoes, and he desperately wanted them off. “They’re quite… powerful, I imagine. These individuals who now own it? The Studio?”

 

Thorin looked as though he was going to say something, but Bofur cut him off, voice still breezy. “I’d imagine so! If the stories are true, old Smaug has half the police and judges in Los Angeles under claw. To say we’d be in hot water if anything went wrong would be phrasing it very gently!”

 

“You said ‘steal back,’ earlier,” Bilbo interrupted, his voice shaking a little. God, but he wanted his shoes off, he felt as though he could run a mile in his bare feet, in spite of the sweat gathering on his brow.

 

“Yes, if you sign that, you’ve agreed to break into the studio, find the odd legal document that will help us take it from the folks who own it now,” Bofur gently concluded.

 

There was silence, and Bilbo’s vision tunneled. The last thing he heard before collapsing was Thorin hastily pushing his chair back to stand and Phile’s question, “Do you need a drink? You look lous--”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the show "DuBarry Was A Lady" by Cole Porter in 1939. Did you know I don't own that, either? Well. Did you EVah. What a swell party this is...  
> If anybody was waiting, I'm sorry for the delay! There was quite a bit of school business to be seen to, and the summer was absolute madness. I think I'll be getting more done, now that things are quieting down somewhat.  
> I hate to self-advertise, but I've also been absorbed with writing a new fic, "The Twelve Swans." If you're keen, you can check it out, but no pressure.  
> I was really looking forward to getting Thorin in here at last. Yes, he's an American as well. Seeing how he doesn't get to see his niece and nephew often at all and communicates via letters for the most part, I'd imagine he'd be a bit more touchy-feely affectionate with the kids than film!Thorin and book!Thorin. Phile and Kelley have probably been raised on "Uncle Thorin" stories all their lives, so this would be a huge deal for them.  
> "The Rose Brothers" are based on The Marx Brothers. Bombur, played by Bobby, was the "Harpo" of the group. More on their individual "schticks" will come along in later chapters.  
> Gwilym Graham, our Gloin, Screen Name William Owen, was a sort of Humphrey Bogart-esque- Film- Noir- Detective actor. And, like our dear Humphrey, he has a Lauren Bacall. More on that.  
> Dwalin, called Dylan, is a Song-And-Dance man, a la Gene Kelly. It will be spelled "Dylan" from now on in this story. "Dulin" was a phonetic pronunciation of how I intended his name to be pronounced, the way I heard it said in Wales. Bilbo, as well as everyone else who saw Dylan's films, read it DIL-an, and it was probably pronounced that way in Hollywood as well. Both he and Gwilym went with screen names to become more popular to American audiences.  
> Costume Mistresses have to be a great many things-- architects, historians, artists, you name it. The extraordinary work that goes into designing and building a costume is nothing to be scoffed at. Blejan is very likely the most level-headed, organized person out of whatever crowd she is in, wherever she is at.  
> There's a little more information about Orville and the Super Siblings Phile and Kelley in Side by Side by Side, the second part of this story. Theodore, "Dori," is going to make sure he's safe and well-fed, and Nori... is a story for another time.  
> I do not own any part of Tolkien's works, nor that of Peter Jackson or Hollywood.  
> Thanks for your patience, and eat a warm meal.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I can hardly believe it was possible for anyone to turn out as well as Bilbo so soon after the depression and war. Just saying.
> 
> This is inspired by the works of J.R.R Tolkien, and the adaptations of his work by Peter Jackson. I lay no claim to any of their ideas.
> 
> None of the film stars mentioned in here are real figures.
> 
> See if this sounds familiar, it's in a fair amount in old Hollywood films-- someone who lives peaceably gets swept into someone's crazy business, usually the Tall Dark Handsome Snarker. 
> 
> ...Very well, The Hobbit's Tall Dark Handsome Snarker is an element solely in the 2012 film version of The Hobbit, but I can dream.
> 
> But why should that fall solely to pretty young librarians and lady social workers? Let's give it to a prematurely grumpy, littler, older man, and see what we can see.


End file.
